Facilitateur
by Akiko Keeper of Sheep
Summary: Sherlock is an addict, but he wants to be good for John. He didn't realize that John was the worst sort of enabler imaginable. Not SOS-compliant. Fluffy, Introspective, Slashy-slash of the slash kind.
1. Prologue: Malsain

Facilitateur

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By: Akiko, Keeper of Sheep

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Prologue: Malsain

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_Addiction (noun): the compulsive need for and use of a habit-forming substance (as heroin, nicotine, or alcohol) characterized by tolerance and by well-defined physiological symptoms upon withdrawal; broadly: persistent compulsive use of a substance known by the user to be harmful._

Anyone who had ever had more than a passing interaction with Sherlock Holmes knew that he had an addictive personality. It wasn't exactly a secret, after all. Were he a less secure man, he might have been a little insulted that anyone he interacted with on a daily basis exhibited no surprise that he had a past drug habit. He didn't particularly care what they thought, though, so he ignored it as he did every other predictable aspect of the average human psyche and moved on.

Then along came John.

John, who had been startled and dismayed at Sherlock's use of nicotine patches, as though that was the worst chemical Sherlock had ever introduced into his body. John, who had been so sure that Sherlock would never use hard drugs, even after witnessing his use of patches. John, who had looked so disappointed, so disbelieving, like a little boy who had been told his favorite superhero was just an actor running about with a blanket round his shoulders.

John, who did not approve of addictions, but understood. He understood, and accepted it, because he would be a hypocrite if he didn't.

Sherlock found that he didn't like disappointing John. He hated that the smaller man expected so much of him, hated the stomach-clenching height of the teetering pedestal John placed him on. He wasn't a good man, or a hero, or whatever pathetically quixotic ideas John had about him. He was flawed and twisted and _wrong_, and as much as he resented that John didn't see that, he was terrified at the thought of John finding out.

He had come to enjoy John's company, his constant, steady presence and exasperating emotions. Sherlock was never lonely before, had never imagined being able to tolerate the company of so mundane a human being. In fact, it could be said that Sherlock Holmes preferred his solidute; yet here was this frightfully dull person, invading his space and reorganizing his books and binning his petri dishes and _being John_, and Sherlock was loving every second of it.

As such, the thought of John leaving sent shudders of extremely unwelcome emotion through him - anger, sadness, fear, fear, _fear_. He didn't want John to go away, to leave him alone with his thoughts and no homemade curry and 'freak' hissed at him everywhere he went. He knew he shouldn't want John's affection and tolerance and admiration, he knew he didn't deserve it, but Sherlock also knew that he could no longer do without it.

After John came along, Sherlock stopped using his patches so much. He no longer took out the padlocked case under the floorboards once a month, staring down at it and testing, relentlessly tempting, until he was certain he wouldn't regret putting it away without opening it. He ceased tracing the crook of his arm and imagining...

Sherlock Holmes was no stranger to addiction. He knew it was frowned upon by society, and he didn't care. He knew it was frowned upon by John, and he strove to overcome it. It never occured to him, _him_, the world's only consulting detective, to suspect that something was amiss.

When Sherlock first noticed his newest addiction, he was equal parts confused, bemused, and curious.

It never occured to him that John was enabling him.

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To Be Continued...

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A/N - WTF? Where the hell did this come from?

Oh, right, a chat with my sister. Why do all the best/worst/craziest ideas come from her?

I could have worked on the companion piece to SOS. I could have worked on the second part of Lorem Corde Meo. I could have worked on any of the series I have in the works from any of the other fandoms I write for. But no. I chose to start a new series.

*headdesk*

This is not SOS-compliant, by the way. It's not part of that universe, but it should be fun all the same. =) Happy! Happy fic! Nothing angsty to see here!

...yet.

Song for this chapter: 'Ulysses' (Franz Ferdinand)

Reviews are my drug of choice!

Peace.

Akiko


	2. One: Confiture

Facilitateur

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By: Akiko, Keeper of Sheep

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Chapter One: Confiture

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He didn't realize what was happening at first. It was an insidious thing, weaving its way into his psyche until he was irrevocably ensnared. By the time he caught on, it was too late, far too late. He was helpless to fight this new, frightening addiction, and he was sure it would be the death of him.

He noticed it on a Saturday morning. John had slept in while Sherlock worked on a delicate experiment, and had stumbled into the kitchen at about noon in a pair of sweats that slipped down his hips to cling to the curve of his buttocks and absolutely nothing else.

Not that Sherlock was staring.

Tea was made, of course, whilst John set about making himself toast. All part of his usual morning routine. It was dull and boring, and yet something about it arrested Sherlock's attention. It was that attention, though, that made Sherlock aware of his inexplicable cravings.

One bite into the toast was all it took.

Sherlock watched out of the corner of his eye, one hand clenching against his thigh and the other fisting around the coarse adjustment knob of his microscope until his slide was cracked and useless. He was suddenly entranced by the sight of John's pearly white teeth sinking into the gooey jam he'd slathered on his breakfast, entranced by the way John flicked his tongue out to catch a stray blob of the stuff that threatened to ooze off the corner of the slice.

_What's wrong with me?_

As he continued to observe John making his way through that piece of toast and starting on his second with one corner of his brain, another was utilized to catalogue and scrutinize his symptoms.

Shaking hands. Irregular heartbeat. Cold sweat. Flushed cheeks. Difficulty swallowing. Rapid, unconscious movement of the leg. Feelings of yearning, of necessity.

Ah. These symptoms he knew. He had long struggled against them, and had persevered, or so he'd thought. Now, looking back over the last few weeks, it became oh, so obvious to the brilliant detective that he had succumbed to the ways and needs of an addict.

_How very frustrating_, he thought, no longer even pretending to work, _to be driven by desire for something so...dull._

No. Sherlock was better than that. He was stronger than that. He didn't need anything that way, not anymore. He was the one in control of his mind, not any thing, substance, or person. He could not be swayed by the weaknesses of the flesh.

He was not, not, _not_ addicted to strawberry jam.

He didn't even notice that when John caught him looking and offered him his own toast, his answer was an instantaneous and somewhat hoarse "yes". He was too busy reviewing the last three weeks, the weeks in which he'd begun his cohabitation with the doctor. It was something of a revelation, because it forced him to confront his addiction. Since the first moment he'd witnessed John sucking the sweet preserves from his fingers, pink tongue darting out to lap at the juncture between the digits as though every trace of the sticky substance was too _good_ to let go, Sherlock had wanted, needed, _craved_ the taste of sugar and strawberries like nothing before.

As a result, he'd always taken whatever bits of toast or scone John set before him, heaped with the stuff as though the smaller man _knew_ how very much Sherlock needed his fix.

"Jam?"

Sherlock looked up at John, licking his lips as he watched the knife dip into the jar and come out with a thick layer of jam. It dripped a bit, like drops of blood from a corpse, staining John's fingers. John loved jam, too, though, so he wouldn't rinse it off in the sink. He would lick it from his fingers like he always did, like Sherlock did, because it was never, ever enough.

"_Please_."

John laughed. "Well, I can't fault you there. Jam is the stuff of dreams."

The statement made no sense to Sherlock, but he found himself agreeing wholeheartedly anyway as he reached for his toast. If his abandoned experiments began bubbling and frothing in ways they shouldn't as he indulged himself, well, he could just start them over.

And if his heartbeat didn't slow until much later, long after John had left, long after the taste of the jam was gone from his tongue, he didn't think it too strange.

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To Be Continued...

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A/N - Because really, who doesn't love jam?

Now I'm craving toast...

Anyway! Chapter done, jam fetish indulged, mental image of Sherlock licking jam off of John firmly embedded in your brains. My work here is done.

Song for this chapter: 'Sweet Dreams' (Eurythmics)

Reviews are sweeter than jam!

Peace.

Akiko


	3. Two: Chandail

Facilitateur

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By: Akiko, Keeper of Sheep

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Chapter Two: Chandail

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He should have expected it, really. After the unsettling epiphany regarding the jam, Sherlock should have been more cautious, more guarded against the unwanted obsessions to which he was so prone. He could only put it down to underestimating the power of the pedestrian comforts of average human beings. Certainly, he could understand how such boring things could hold sway over boring people, but over Sherlock Holmes? He had scoffed at the idea, catalogued the jam as an anomoly, and moved on.

Damn his unconscious habit of disregarding the mundane.

It shouldn't have come as such a surprise to him when he uncovered his newest addiction. He knew himself, knew how easily the constant presence of something only increased his fixation on said something. He shouldn't have been shocked and dismayed at his obsession with jumpers.

He shouldn't have, but oh, he was.

He wasn't certain when that one started, or how, but he knew he was in deep when he found himself stealing a moment to brush his fingers against the soft, warm material of John's jumper as the man was crouched over a mutilated corpse. The kitten-fur texture made his mouth go dry and his heart thump oddly in his chest, and he was suddenly aware of John glancing up at him questioningly.

Of course, he'd have to have been unconscious not to notice Sherlock's hand running across his shoulderblades.

"Er, there was a beetle," he said, slightly breathless due to his heart continuing its arrythmia. That was surely unhealthy.

After that embarrassing moment (and Lestrade, who had watched the whole incident, kept looking amused, and why was he amused? He hated Sherlock's addictive personality, hated the roads it led the detective down. Surely this would bother him, worry him, anger him even...) Sherlock was much more attentive.

It was not pleasant to discover the depths to which he could sink to soothe his desires.

Somewhere along the way, the tug of a sleeve to get John running after him and the palm pressed to the small of the doctor's back to shove him along had changed. It was no longer simply a casual action designed to assert his control over his assistant. It had mutated into an overwhelming need to touch, stroke, press, caress, _feel_. He was constantly swamped by his brain's instructions to reach out, just a bit further, grasp the cuff of John's sleeve just a bit too long, guide him with a hand on his shoulder, though he knew it to be unnecessary.

All of which culminated in Sherlock agreeing to do the laundry so that he could spend as long as he liked petting John's favorite jumper. He didn't pay much mind to the odd stares he got in the laundry from mothers and university students, because really, they had their own vices. He could deduce them in moments if he wasn't already occupied trying to memorize the sensation of the jumper.

He had planned on getting his fill, filing the information away so that he could recall it in the future, try to use the memory to negate the need. Unfortunately, the time it took for the laundry to finish was not long enough, so Sherlock devised a plan whereby he would secret away the jumper to use at his discretion.

That is, he was going to steal it and hide it.

So when John began asking after his favorite jumper, the one that was that particular shade of blue (yes, Sherlock knew exactly what color it was, it was the color of John's eyes, matched them perfectly), the detective simply shrugged.

"I have more vital things to concentrate on, John, than your jumpers," he lied.

And when he was done with cases and experiments and could no longer resist the call, he would lock himself in his room and pull out the soft blue jumper. He would rub his cheek against the material, inadvertantly inhaling the scent of John (it wasn't terrible, so he didn't mind). And when that wasn't enough, he would pull off his own shirt and tug the jumper over his head, curling up on the mattress and hugging himself, fingers clutching at the sleeves as though he could press the feel of the knitting into his skin forever. He would be surrounded by the warmth and scent and comfort and would slip into dreams without even noticing.

He didn't mind the increased sleep, because whenever he woke up, he discovered that his unconscious mind had continued to indulge in his addiction, and the need had abated almost entirely.

Almost.

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To Be Continued...

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A/N - Because jumpers are like hugs from God.

OMG, another chapter! It helps that I'm trying to keep them short and not rambling on for more than a page-and-a-half. It doesn't help that I could wax poetic about John's jumpers forever.

Ah, well.

Anyway, there is much more to come. Not all of it is as obvious as jam and jumpers. In fact, most of it is downright odd. It's all Shwatsonlock, though, so rejoice!

Song for this chapter: 'If I Fell' (Evan Rachel Wood - _Across The Universe_)

Reviews are like hugs from you!

Peace.

Akiko


	4. Three: Enquete

Facilitateur

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By: Akiko, Keeper of Sheep

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Chapter Three: Enquête

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When Sherlock next noticed the trap of obsession closing over his head, he was only _just_ too late to stop it.

This one began shortly after the run-in with the Black Lotus. John had insisted on watching some utterly ludicrous "detective" program (which was undoubtedly called _BlahBlah Investigations_ or _BlahBlah Investigates_), even though Sherlock had said, quite pointedly, that he was trying to think.

"You're always _thinking_, Sherlock," John had snorted. "Maybe it's time you turned off that great brain of yours and relaxed."

Sherlock, who had been lounging bonelessly on the couch at that point, had opted to simply raise an eyebrow at John incredulously.

Sadly, it did not stop John from lifting Sherlock's legs and occupying that end of the couch. At least the man was considerate enough to let Sherlock remain stretched out, even though it meant the detective's feet were in his associate's lap. Sherlock didn't mind, though - it put him in a prime position to jab John in the stomach should he get too loud, and would require minimal effort to do so.

The program turned out to be called _Hetty Wainthropp Investigates_ ( a terribly banal title for a terribly banal show, as he had thought), and it was almost painful to watch at first. Not that Sherlock was actually watching - he had far more important things to ponder, like the putrefying duck's brain in the cupboard over the stove. Sooner or later, John would notice the smell and try to bin it, so Sherlock would be in need of a more secure location.

Shortly following the opening credits, Sherlock was jolted out of his planning when he became aware of a strong, callused thumb tracing his media malleolus, moving lightly along the ridges of his tarsals and metatarsals, counting the joints of his phalanges before tracing back up his medial longitudinal arch to start the process over again. It was not unpleasant, although it did tickle a bit, so Sherlock said nothing. He filed it away in the "John" folder in his hard drive and delved back into his thoughts.

Then John started giggling.

It was irritatingly distracting - sporadic enough that Sherlock could not tune it out, but not obviously annoying enough that he could say anything without upsetting John. This was something Sherlock was loathe to do; John had been touchy lately, and a touchy John was a John that banned combustible experiments.

Sighing, Sherlock conceded that as he was now unable to concentrate on truly pressing issues, he may as well rot his brain in the attempt to make something entertaining of the program by which John was so enraptured.

This was a mistake.

As it turned out, Sherlock was not nearly so bored by the program as he'd expected. Certainly, the plots were simple and all the evidence needed to deduce the culprit and the means was presented before each episode was half over, but the crimes were inventive. Not to mention, the main character managed to not be half as dull as the vast majority of the Yarders. It was no Agatha Christie novel (in which Sherlock has only dabbled twice), but it was entertaining.

More than that, it seemed that watching the program with Sherlock made John much more forgiving of such things as a moldering mass of waterfowl brain matter than the detective had believed he could be.

So he resolved to spend a bit of time every so often on the program. He found that he rather enjoyed deducing the plot, gathering all sorts of fascinating information on motive and method to store in his hard drive. Even more intriguing was the kaleidoscope of human interactions that was unveiled. Such data on social relationships was invaluable to an investigator who wished to blend in.

The best part, though, was that it cemented the bond between detective and doctor, assuring Sherlock that his surprisingly useful assistant would be around for some time.

Sherlock should have known better than to let his guard down. He didn't even see it coming. Not until he was staring at the electronic eBay receipt for a set of every series of _Hetty Wainthropp Investigates _on DVD.

Clearly, he was in deeper than he'd thought.

When the package arrived and Sherlock revealed his purchase to John, the older man had nearly squealed with glee. They lounged about all weekend, Sherlock with his feet in John's lap as usual, John giggling more often at Sherlock's deductions about the actors than at the actual show. Privately, as he let his consciousness flit between the screen and the feeling of John's thumb tracing the curve of his ankle, Sherlock thought that there were far worse things to be obsessed with.

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To Be Continued...

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A/N - Hetty Wainthropp was the Supreme Mugwump of detectives, and I'll gut the man who says otherwise.

=D

I do so love cranking out chapters about amusing things. I also love the curve of a person's medial longitudinal arch, though as ticklish as I am, I can't say I'd appreciate anyone loving mine. I absolutely hate that I can't afford all of _Hetty Wainthropp Investigates_. *sob*

Song for this chapter: 'I Want To Hold Your Hand' (TV Carpio - _Across The Universe_) ...Despite it being the wrong extremity. =3

Review, and leave a note to honor the memory of Patricia Rutledge!

Peace.

Akiko


	5. Four: Mots

Facilitateur

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By: Akiko, Keeper of Sheep

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Chapter Four: Mots

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Not long after the first evening Sherlock spent watching _Hetty_ with John, he walked in on the doctor sitting in his favorite armchair and snickering over something on his phone. He was about to ask what John found so amusing when the smaller man leapt up from his seat.

"Yes! Triple word score! Ha! Beat that, Harry!"

At this point, Sherlock was made aware of several things. One, John was more than likely referring to his sister when he said "Harry". Two, John was playing a game. Three, John had not shared this game with Sherlock, despite his obvious enjoyment of it. Four, John was far more competitive than Sherlock had expected. This last deduction was something Sherlock put down to the fact that John was playing a game with his sister. Sibling rivalry brought out the bloodthirsty competitor in the most peaceable of people.

He was a bit more confused about the fact that John had not shared this game with him. The doctor was always enthusiastic about drawing Sherlock into whatever mundane activities caught his fancy. Sherlock still had the occasional disgusted tremor at the memory of an entire twenty minutes of his life (and probably quite a few brain cells) lost to Bejeweled. He would never understand what it was about that game that John was so fond of.

It turned out that John was playing Scrabble on Facebook. Sherlock had avoided Facebook like it carried some highly contagious and horribly disfiguring disease, but he sat at John's elbow while the man played a quick round with an old Army buddy. John didn't particularly like it when Sherlock scoffed at some of his words, but the detective was hard-pressed to care. Why play substandard words when you could play something extraordinary enough to crush your opponent entirely.

For this reason and this reason _only_, Sherlock opened a Facebook account under the assumed name 'Jeremy Rathbone'. He couldn't stand to watch John play without being able to retaliate in some way, and if the only way to teach John the value of a vast vocabulary was to join a social network, then that's what Sherlock would do.

His very first game was not against John. It was, to Sherlock's great irritation, against Mycroft, who had chosen the alias 'Stephen Wilder'. To anyone else, Stephen Wilder was a graying physicist who taught at university (just as Jeremy Rathbone was a seventeen-year-old chess prodigy). To Sherlock, he was an annoyance.

He didn't much like his matches against Mycroft, mostly because they inevitably ended with Sherlock pouting and refusing to get back on the computer until Mycroft agreed to resign.

Sherlock disliked playing with the next person who challenged him, because as much respect as he had for Lestrade (who usually managed to be less dim than his compatriots), the man was far from facund. In fact, he'd spent a week arguing with Sherlock over whether or not "facund" was a word.

He had nearly given up on Scrabble altogether until one day, out of the blue, John invited him into a game.

He was hooked.

Playing against John was thrilling for all sorts of reasons, the most prominent being that John never ceased to surprise him. After losing the first game due to a well-played "hexaxial" that stretched to the triple word score (John did have such a knack for those), Sherlock couldn't get enough.

He discovered that John must have been limiting himself when he'd played with his Army friends and childhood acquaintances. It was the sort of completely inexplicable thing John would do, the sort of thing that Sherlock could never do, no matter how much he wanted to spare someone's feelings.

It was a heady feeling, the knowledge that John had no compunctions about going for the metaphorical throat when he played Sherlock. Their matches were ruthless and often devolved into texted debates over which spelling of "tranquillise" was acceptable. After a rather overwhelming win for Sherlock (double word score on "psychedelic"), John had even texted him a particularly obscene rant that alluded to a supposed affair that his mother had indulged in with various species of livestock. Most of the acts he'd described Sherlock was certain were physically improbable, if not altogether impossible.

It wasn't until he paused in the middle of reviewing a crime scene to play "chiasma" that Sherlock realized that he'd fallen headfirst into another web of addiction.

He told himself that this one wasn't so bad, or so unusual. Plenty of people sought to better their understanding of language through word games. It wasn't as though he had taken to something so mindless as Farmville, after all.

So when, two hours later and up to one elbow in the victim's abdomen, Sherlock found that John had beaten him with a cleverly positioned "communiqué", he grinned. Without releasing his careful grip on the victim's cecum, Sherlock started a new match.

Hang this tiresome business of fighting addictions. The game was afoot.

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To Be Continued...

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A/N - Words are the jam of communication. You know it's true.

Mmm. Strawberry words.

Sadly, my 'v' key is being somewhat finicky at the moment. I shall endeavor to clean my keyboard more often, because rare though it may seem in the English language, I have discovered in the chapter that I tend to use it a lot. =/

I sincerely hope that this chapter has inspired people to look words up. It was the best part of growing up in my family - there were at least two dictionaries per household, and they were all falling apart at the spine. Vocabulary is important, but an interest in language was more important still. It's our primary method of communicating thoughts, feelings, ideas, and/or hot man-on-man smexing. All very important things.

Song for this chapter: 'Word Disassociation' (Lemon Demon)

Use your words! Review with your very favorite word ever, no matter how abstruse, truncated, esoteric or colloquial. I'll start off - floccinaucinihilipilification!

Peace.

Akiko


	6. Five: Musique

Facilitateur

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By: Akiko, Keeper of Sheep

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Chapter Five: Musique

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By far, the most obtrusive of Sherlock's new addictions was the one he developed some three weeks after the Black Lotus incident and two days after his first Scrabble game against John. He could have easily blamed John for this one (he was responsible for introducing Sherlock to most of his damnable obsessions, after all), but he chose to blame Scotland instead. The reason for this was the lamentable fact that were it not for Scotland's continued existance, Franz Ferdinand would never have come into being.

Perhaps it wasn't fair to blame all of Scotland for one band, but it was easy, and addicts did so love to place blame where it wasn't warranted.

Unlike most of his new addictions, Sherlock could pinpoint the moment it entered his bloodstream. He had entered 221B at a run, bursting with excitement and eager to share his newest deductions about the present case with John. The doctor did not notice Sherlock's entrance, which Sherlock found odd for all of a second until he realized that it was due to the earbuds John had lodged in his ears.

Then John started singing, and Sherlock forgot what he'd been dying to tell John just seconds ago.

"Bite hard! Well, it's a broken smile, breakin' our hearts and breakin' our minds! Bite hard! Well, it's a five-oh-five, your engine's alive and we ride together, bite hard!"

John could not sing very well, but what he lacked in technique he more than made up for in enthusiasm. Enthusiasm that, for reasons that escaped Sherlock, required that he wiggle his bottom back and forth as he scrubbed at the windows a bit more energetically than was perhaps necessary.

Sherlock didn't quite understand why it was vital that John sing at the top of his voice, or why cleaning the flat meant that he had to wear a too-tight, too-thin t-shirt with the name of some obscure band printed on it in faded letters. Nor did Sherlock understand why John didn't wear his flat-cleaning jeans more often, because they flattered his buttocks very nicely. He would certainly please Sarah if he wore them on their next date.

As though he'd heard Sherlock's thoughts, he belted out the next lines of the song. "No, I never resort to kissing your photo - honest. I just had to see how the chemicals taste, there, honey, bite hard!"

Something about the words, the melody (if that was even the proper melody - John was often so off-key the original melody was entirely lost) enthralled Sherlock. It was an intoxicating mix of nonsensical ramblings and an invigorating tempo that made Sherlock's blood burn in his veins. From the first, he was overcome with the absolutely unacceptable urge to join John in his hip-shimmying motions.

Yes. _Entirely_ unacceptable.

It was understandable, though. How could he not crave whatever feeling it was that the music evoked in John that caused the man to abandon all decorum and wriggle about like a fool? How could he not want that sense of abandon, the pure, heart-pounding bliss that softened the lines of John's face and curled the corners of his mouth ever upward? Sherlock would not want to be seen in such a state, certainly, but he could appreciate the feeling behind it.

Soon after that, he took great delight in borrowing (with intent to return, so it wasn't stealing, no matter what John alleged) the doctor's iPod and downloading his playlists. He discovered that while he found 'Bite Hard' to be by far the group's catchiest tune, 'Ulysses' fit his current feelings with eerie exactitude. Of all of them, though, he loved to play 'No You Girls' while he worked on his experiments. It was repetitive enough to be unobtrusive, and John enjoyed it enough to allow Sherlock to play it on a loop. He even danced to it more often than not. The sporadic, spastic motions sometimes distracted Sherlock, but he was willing to let it go. He had been getting much better about compromise lately. If dancing like a maniac made John happy, then who was Sherlock to dissuade him?

And if, perhaps, Sherlock had been so entranced by the music that first afternoon that he walked into the wall on his way to the kitchen, John was nice enough not to tease him about it.

John was addicted to music, too, so Sherlock knew he understood.

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To Be Continued...

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A/N - He's a maniac, maniac on the floor! And he's dancing like he's never danced before!

Hopefully that song will be as firmly embedded in your consciousness as it is in mine. Misery loves company, dontcha know?

Really, what can I say to the mental image of John in tight Levis and a Doors tee waggling his butt and singing too-loud and off-key to Franz Ferdinand? It's just...hnng.

In other news, this chapter is much closer to the length I had originally intended all of them to be. =3 I'm not surprised that the Scrabble chapter is the wordiest of all of them (thus far). I would also like to apologize to Sir Stud Muffin and anyone else who's addictions to various preserves and Scottish indie rock bands are being indulged by my frequent (and, admittedly, obsessive) updates. I suppose I'm as addicted to this fic as Sherlock is to John's shimmying buttocks.

Then again, who can blame him?

Song for this chapter: 'Bite Hard' (Franz Ferdinand)

Reviews make John want to do Flashdance in your head. Go on. You know you want to see it, too.

Peace.

Akiko


	7. Six: Scintillement

Facilitateur

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By: Akiko, Keeper of Sheep

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Chapter Six: Scintillement

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By far, Sherlock's most unusual and disturbing addiction was not only so very odd, it was also entirely his own fault. For once, he couldn't blame John, even if he'd wanted to.

It had been a simple experiment to either confirm or disprove the alibi of a suspect. Certainly, Sherlock had not expected the balloon to explode so violently. Neither had he expected John to barrel into the room so suddenly that he plowed into the shocked detective, bringing them both tumbling to the floor in a tangle of limbs and curses.

Sherlock pretended he wasn't savoring the feel of John's jumper against his fisted hands (when had he wrapped them around John's shoulders?) and that John's hair didn't smell of strawberries (why was he pressing his face to Sherlock's neck?). He had only a moment to wonder at the strength of his various addictions before John was pulling away and _oh_.

Glitter, glinting silver-gold against the warm light of the kitchen, was drifting around them in a cloud, settling in their hair and against their cheeks and fingers. It caught in John's eyelashes and stuck to his lips as he smiled ruefully.

"Do I want to know why you're exploding glitter in our kitchen?"

Sherlock didn't answer. He watched the whirlwind of shimmergleampretty settle everywhere, coating their drab world and making it something else, something extraordinary. He watched it as John ran a hand over his shoulder, sending a little flurry of it curling into the air to settle on the pale stretch of Sherlock's throat.

John paused, tilting his head briefly and seeming to contemplate something, and Sherlock was entranced by the play of the artificial light against the glitter and tanned skin and deep blue eyes. Then John was reaching out, fingers flicking through Sherlock's hair, making new little swirls of glitter in the air.

_It looks like wonderful._

Later, in the privacy of his own room, Sherlock would stare at the traces of glitter his fingers left on John's stolen jumper and he would sigh violently through his nose and shake his head at that inane thought. It wasn't even grammatically correct. Obviously his sinking back into an addict's headspace was affecting his cognitive processes adversely.

The next day John had dragged him into some obscenely overpriced shop that was frequented by far too many teenagers with badly-dyed hair and more piercings than skin and a thirst to prove their individuality in amusingly conformed ways, and Sherlock had protested mightily.

"Harry likes that sort of thing, and I need to get her a gift for her birthday," John had explained, though it didn't let Sherlock in on why his presence was necessary.

He was unprepared for the craving that hit him like a punch in the gut when he saw the necklace display. Dozens of delicate silver chains shifted minutely beneath the air duct. Hanging from the chains were tiny bottle after tiny bottle of glitter, in every color imaginable, clinking against each other enticingly.

He didn't even have to think about it when he gathered every last one up and handed his card to the startled girl with far too many earrings that was standing awkwardly behind the counter.

He paid John's raised eyebrows no mind. He couldn't begin to explain this new obsession. It was illogical, it served no purpose and had no practical applications whatsoever. And yet, as he fixed one of the chains around his neck and ran one finger over the bottle of dark blue glitter, he could only remember the conviction with which he had believed that it _looked like wonderful_.

John didn't protest when he woke up to find the bathroom inundated with shiny specks of deep violet and emerald green. In fact, Sherlock had seen his lips slip into a tired smile more than once as he'd brushed bits of metallic red off his armchair. When he'd ended up having to shake out his jacket just outside a crime scene when he found pink residue in his pockets, he had only sighed and regarded Sherlock sternly before shrugging the jacket back on and continuing towards the flame-gutted building they were investigating.

"What is it about the glitter," he asked softly one evening as they meandered through the gardens of Hyde Park hunting down a particular kind of rose that would cinch the whole case.

Sherlock stopped and looked over at John, not certain how to answer. He thought instead about how warm the sky looked, the sun just finishing it's slow dip below the horizon, the clouds still glowing peach and pink and purple. John's hair was kissed with gold and his eyes seemed brighter and larger than normal.

Taking the tiny bottle of silvery glitter from around his neck, Sherlock emptied its contents into his hands and threw it into the air over their heads. John watched it dance around them, little eddies and whorls painted against the sky by a slight breeze. Sherlock sighed a little in satisfaction as his desires were once again sated, his eyes tracking the shimmery mist as it settled over his companion.

John grinned wryly at the detective, reaching up to brush a bit of glitter from Sherlock's lapel, and Sherlock knew he understood. They watched the glitter settle onto the roses, and when all was still again they continued on.

As they trailed glitter through the gardens, Sherlock smiled to himself.

It really did look like wonderful.

:::

To Be Continued...

:::

A/N - Glitter looks like wonderful.

If you haven't already learned that, you must not have read this chapter right.

This is the fourth or fifth chapter I've written in the last 24 hours, and it's time for bed. Sorry, readers, you'll have to wait another 9 hours or so for another chapter. I'm sure you'll survive.

To anyone who has never actually thrown a fistful of glitter in the air, I say you are missing out. It's fun, even when you get kicked out of the local botanical garden for polluting the area. =3

Song for this chapter: 'Glitter In The Air' (P!nk)

Reviews glitter brighter than gold!

Peace.

Akiko


	8. Seven: Bulles

Facilitateur

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By: Akiko, Keeper of Sheep

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Chapter Seven: Bulles

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It wasn't until after The Pool that Sherlock discovered a new addiction, and John had nothing to do with this one, because he had been lying unconscious in a hospital bed for the first three days of Sherlock's growing preoccupation. It could be said, however, that had John not been incapacitated in such a manner, Sherlock would never have been introduced to his newest fixation.

It was, oddly enough, Lestrade's youngest child who became Sherlock's dealer.

The detective inspector had been a frequent visitor to John's bedside, sometimes bringing a balloon or two (John had a rainbow bouquet of them by the time he'd been discharged), sometimes bringing casefiles for Sherlock to peruse. And on the first day of John's stay in intensive care, he had brought his youngest, Mary, because she had been let out of school early and he'd had no one to watch her.

Sherlock had been startled and dismayed to see the child (he had some vague notion of one of the rules of the unit being No Children), and when she'd bounced over to John's bed, golden-brown curls tumbling every which way, Sherlock had tensed.

Lestrade must have explained about sick people in hospital, though, because she only stretched up on tiptoe to peer at the unconscious man for a moment, before craning even further to place a fuzzy green plush toy in the shape of a rabbit on the pillow beside John's head. Around the neck of the rabbit was a round yellow bottle with a smiley face painted on it.

The sight of the smiley face had made Sherlock frown. Yet again, he found himself vowing to never again do anything eccentric that would upset John, if only the man would wake up. He would bin his experiments, wash the dishes, spackle the bullet holes, whatever John wanted, if only he would open his eyes so Sherlock could apologise for nearly getting him killed. Yet again, John did not open his eyes, did not wake up, and Sherlock was left with his apologies echoing in his vast brain with nowhere to go.

"Will he be asleep all day," a tiny voice said, putting into words something Sherlock had wondered more than once. Deep blue eyes, intelligent and so like John's, peered up at him curiously.

Blinking at the child, Sherlock had tilted his head and narrowed his eyes. "He will remain unconscious until his brain has healed itself enough for him to wake up," he explained (reminded himself), not knowing if Mary was old enough to understand and not particularly caring. She nodded as though she understood, though, and reached out to run a minute finger along John's wrist. Then she poked him in the hand and sighed.

"Daddy says Doctor John is the best person that's ever happened to you," she said with a frown. "He says Doctor John is nice, and funny, and that if I asked he would play tea party with me."

Sherlock had no doubt that anything involving tea would intrigue John, so he nodded.

"Daddy didn't think Doctor John would like the bubbles much, but I know better," she added, poking at the smiley-face-bottle this time and watching it swing back and forth. "Bubbles make everything better."

When Lestrade had pulled her away with a smile at Sherlock and a squeeze of John's hand, Sherlock turned his attention to the bottle. He didn't understand how a childish toy like bubbles could make anything better, but he suspected it was the sort of thing John would get. John was fanciful like that. After a long moment, he reached out and took the bottle from around the rabbit's neck and unscrewed the lid. He had never seen a bubble wand before, but he quickly deduced its purpose and blew gently through it.

The bubble that resulted was large and filled with swirls of incandescent color, and it drifted across the room slowly before floating into the far wall and bursting in a fine spray of soapy mist. Intrigued, Sherlock blew harder and faster this time, and was rewarded with a cascade of shimmery bubbles. The rainbow whorls entranced him as they danced slowly about, a gentle waltz as compared to the flurry of motion that a handful of glitter produced.

Over the next three days, Sherlock spent his waking hours (which greatly outnumbered the hours he spent in sleep, which would annoy John when he awoke) trying to calculate the path along which each bubble would travel and to deduce when each would burst. His fingers were soon coated in a light film of the soapy bubble mixture, and his lips ached oddly from being pursed so frequently, sharp in places and tingling everywhere. The nurses had only insisted that he not blow bubbles in John's direction and ignored his constant actions after that. It was perhaps a meaningless exercise, but as he had nothing else to focus on save for John's never-changing condition, it was one he gladly turned his mind to.

When John finally awoke, it was to the sight of a cloud of bubbles drifting past his window, the sunlight making them appear far more delicate and insubstantial than they otherwise would. As he watched them flutter past like a school of fish, his eyes slid shut again, his lips quirked in a soft smile.

His recovery was spent blowing bubbles at Sherlock and giggling tiredly when the detective reached out and popped each with one long, thin finger. He would gather them on his palms and hold them up to the wan light from the window.

"Look at the colors, Sherlock," he would say quietly, and Sherlock would look at John through them, watching the swirls of color paint themselves across John's distorted features.

Lestrade brought Mary by several more times (always with a new bottle of bubble mix, in odd shapes and colors), and Sherlock was forced to play tea party with them, but as that soon devolved into them having a Who-Can-Blow-The-Biggest-Bubble contest, he didn't much mind. Though he had much more experience and John was much more patient than his opponents, Mary invariably won. Sherlock suspected that John let her win, and was content to pretend that he let her win, as well.

Later, when John was once again safely home in 221B, and Sherlock had no cases and nothing to distract him from the utter boredom, he would prop his feet in John's lap as _Hetty_ played softly on the telly, and would blow bubbles that alighted in John's hair, and John would let him.

:::

To Be Continued...

:::

A/N - Bubbles are the fish of the air.

Is it just me, or is Sherlock slowly but surely losing his mind? Yes, I think it's just me losing that's slowly but surely losing my mind, but I can pretend it's Sherlock.

I spend an inordinate amount of time blowing bubbles at the cat, mostly because she's very weirded out by them. Sometimes she tries to sniff them (which makes them explode in her face and usually prompt her to give me that "SrslyWTFHuman?" look that kitties are so good at), but she tries to hide from them more often.

I'se so evil.

On a side-note, I'm planning to have the whole series done by tomorrow afternoon, so be prepared for a mass-update at some point. =3 Then again, I may be distracted by something shiny, so don't hold your breaths or anything.

On another side-note, it'll be some time before the next chapter, because I have to get ready for work now. Damn you, real life, and your intrusive insistance that I behave like a productive member of society! *shakes fist at reality in general*

Song for this chapter: 'Across The Universe' (The Beatles)

Reviews make me feel full of bubbles!

Peace.

Akiko


	9. Eight: Maquillage

Facilitateur

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By: Akiko, Keeper of Sheep

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Chapter Eight: Maquillage

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Of all of the things Sherlock would ever develop an addiction to, the most unexpected would've had to have been the one he developed to a particular sort of makeup.

Following John's last physical therapy session (which Sherlock also attended to ensure that Moriarty did not make another attempt at abducting him), the doctor insisted that they go out to celebrate.

"Certainly," Sherlock mumbled absently as he propped one elbow on the table and rested his chin in his palm. John was making them toast for breakfast, and Sherlock wanted to ensure that a proper amount of jam was utilized. "Angelo's?"

"Er, actually, one of my mates from uni invited me to celebrate his birthday at Sugar's tonight. I was hoping you'd come with us; I haven't been there in ages, and I'd feel awkward without someone to hide in the corner with, especially since we'll probably be the only ones there even close to middle age," he added with a self-deprecating grin.

Sherlock's elbow slipped from the table, and he barely managed to catch himself before his face met the plate of toast in front of him far more violently than he would have liked.

"Sugar's," Sherlock said slowly, as though he was speaking to a particularly dim person, "is a club."

"Yes," John returned in the same tone, "I'm aware of that."

"A club for persons occupying various circles of alternative lifestyle."

"A gay club, yes."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "How very...binary of you, John."

John laughed at that and bit into his toast, and Sherlock quirked a smile before tucking in to his own. As he indulged his jam fetish, Sherlock listened to John list the reasons Sherlock just _had_ to come with him, starting with 'you'll like Simon, he's quite clever' and ending with 'it'd be a perfect place for Moriarty to ambush me'. In the end, he'd found himself agreeing, and even spent a moment trying to decide between his violet shirt and the deep blue one that complimented John's eyes. Not that he'd spent an inordinate amount of time analyzing the color of John's eyes; it was simply an observation.

That evening, as Sherlock reclined on the couch in his usual manner (having chosen and donned the blue shirt), he was pounced upon (quite literally, as his bruised internal organs could attest to) by a giddy ex-Army doctor armed with an eyeliner pencil.

"No," Sherlock insisted.

John laughed again and held Sherlock's chin in one hand as he traced the detective's eyes deftly. Sighing through his nose (and endeavoring not to move or risk having an eye poked out), Sherlock allowed John to line, smudge, and otherwise enunciate his eyes. As he worked, the smaller man kept up a running commentary about his friends and their escapades.

"...And one time, Rob made the mistake of trying a Jagerbomb, dear God, it took us two hours to talk him down from the bar, and by that point he'd lost everything but his pants, spent _ages_ looking for his trousers, had his wallet, y'see, and he was buying that night...Simon had this girlfriend, Lex, oh, don't look like that, Sherlock, Simon isn't gay or anything, _now_ who's being _binary_, but Lex was assigned male at birth, lord, if you ever said anything to her about it she'd bite your head off, not that I blame her, must be absolutely _miserable_ to spend thirty years stuck in the wrong body...And I never did find him, but this guy had groped me in the toilet and stuck his tongue in my ear, come to find out he was trying to nick my stash, oh, _stop it_, I didn't even _have_ a stash, but apparently in that particular bar in that particular part of town, anyone walking round in leather trousers was assumed to be a junkie, quite disappointing, really, because he was _very_ talented with his tongue...What do you think, Sherlock, should I do cat eyes, no, don't blink, I'll just do small ones..."

Sherlock didn't make a sound the whole time (although he did make several enlightening deductions about John's rather flexible orientation), simply catalogued every bit of information to scrutinize later. He wasn't certain what "cat eyes" entailed, but John seemed quite pleased with whatever he'd doodled on Sherlock's face, and the detective was sure John wouldn't have done anything ridiculous.

John had rolled off of his flatmate then, scurrying off to change out of his jumper and jeans, leaving Sherlock to inspect his reflection in his compact (which he carried in case he needed to look around corners, of course, not for cosmetic purposes, which would be laughable). "Cat eyes" were, apparently, when one extended the eyeliner past the outer corner of the eye and drew a small, curved tail. The darkness of the pencil made his eyes seem that much more vivid, less washed-out than was normal.

Pursing his lips, Sherlock thought back to his own uni days and pulled out the tiny bottle of blue glitter he kept around his neck. Letting a bit coat his fingers, he pressed his palms to his cheeks, then ran his hands through his hair. As an afterthought, he let his fingers leave trails of glitter down his throat and past where his undone shirt buttons exposed his collarbone.

"Done primping," an amused voice spoke up behind him.

Rolling his eyes as he turned, Sherlock opened his mouth to respond and felt his breath catch in his throat.

John was wearing the sort of clothing he usually cleaned the flat in - a far-too-tight black t-shirt with the Rolling Stones logo on it in silvery glitter and his favorite pair of broken-in jeans. He was also wearing a leather jacket that Sherlock had never seen before in his life. He looked more youthful somehow, and the well-defined lines of his body were well-flattered, and all of this was intriguing in a way that Sherlock couldn't quite identify, but it wasn't what made his heart thump in unhealthy ways.

John was _staring_ at him. It wasn't the usual "have you lost your mind?" stare, or the "I'm going to glare at you until you do as I say" stare. It wasn't even the "it might take me a bit longer than you, but I will figure you out, and when I do I'm going to gloat about it _forever_" stare. It was a blank stare, not a hint of an expression showing on John's face, but his eyes burned into Sherlock as they never had before. His gaze was tracking over Sherlock's face as though he was committing the sight to memory, filing it away in his hard drive the way Sherlock filed away every little detail about a corpse.

Oddly, Sherlock felt his cheeks growing warmer. His lips parted again to say something, anything, to get John to just stop staring at him like that. John's eyes flicked down to Sherlock's mouth, and the smoldering look turned to white-hot flames.

Then, quickly as the fire was lit, it burned out, and John was grinning and waving a thin bottle of translucent blue fluid. When he had cornered Sherlock and applied what turned out to be lip gloss (blueberry-flavored, of course, how predictable), John tossed him his coat and dragged him from the house by the wrist.

Sugar's turned out to be stuffy, loud, and thuroughly disorienting. Lights were flashing in Sherlock's eyes from all angles, and the bodies of complete strangers were pushing against him from every side. John seemed to know his way around, despite claiming that he hadn't been inside the place since medical school, and had deftly navigated the writhing throngs of humanity to a long booth in one corner.

Simon was an interesting man; he giggled in harmony with John whilst they cajoled each other into trying flaming shots (and John had the nerve to call some of Sherlock's experiments dangerous) and gazed at Sherlock with wide, chocolate-brown eyes as the detective deduced his life story (or something close to it).

Lex sat primly in one corner, making a point of running her perfectly-manicured fingernails along the stem of her martini glass and licking her lips when Sherlock glanced her way. She even bit her lip once, letting it slip from between her teeth slowly, which was not nearly as enticing as she no doubt imagined, mostly because whatever lipstick she had applied had smudged on her teeth when she did so.

Rob, the bar-dancing wonder, had apparently matured somewhat, because he was sitting quietly to one side, drinking only water and listening (as well as he could with the simply heinous volume of the music) to the conversations around him. He would steal glances at Sherlock from time to time, seeming to want to say something, but he never did.

For his part, Sherlock wasn't having a terrible time. He listened to John and Simon telling stories about humiliating collegiate experiences, sipped at his Coke demurely. When Simon dragged him to the dance floor he went, allowing himself to be shunted from side to side by the flailing masses. He didn't even complain when Simon wrapped his arms around his shoulders and leaned up to nuzzle Sherlock's jawline.

"I like a man in eyeliner," Simon purred against Sherlock's throat.

Then John was there, laughingly pulling Simon into his arms and bumping his hips against Simon's bottom until the three of them were moving nearly in sync with each other. They must have looked a bit odd, Simon being halfway between John's and Sherlock's height, with curls like Sherlock and skin the color of John's. Like a gradiant scale between genius (being Sherlock, obviously) and brilliant (which was John, in ways that had nothing to do with intelligence).

Sherlock found he couldn't tear his gaze away as John mumbled something into Simon's ear, lips brushing sandy-blonde ringlets as his callused fingers danced over the man's hips. Then those hands were reaching out, hooking Sherlock's belt loops and tugging until Sherlock had to wrap his arms around Simon to grip John's biceps or risk falling over. He could feel Simon's cold palms against his stomach where the man had slipped his hands up Sherlock's shirt, but he paid it no mind, because John was staring at him again.

John was wearing eyeliner, too.

It was nowhere near as dark or elaborate as Sherlock's, but it made his eyes look larger and brighter and somehow blue-er than before, though that could have been the strobe lights throwing him off. Sherlock found that he very much liked the way the eyeliner made John seem more exotic, more free and perhaps more open than he usually did. It was odd, as though John had slipped on a mask that allowed Sherlock to see through his other mask. Or perhaps he had simply taken that mask off, exposing his thoughts and feelings and wants and flaws.

He wondered if he looked that same way to John. He wondered if that was why John stared at him so intently. He wondered if perhaps he could get away with wearing the eyeliner every day.

When he and John had stumbled out of Sugar's and had fallen breathlessly into their cab (John was giggling again, clearly intoxicated and looking much younger than he ever had), Sherlock tried to force himself to think past the haze of sequins and cologne and colored lights, but all he could focus on was the ringing of his ears and the way John's eyeliner had smudged around his eyes. It made the lines seem lighter and thicker, fuzzy shadows that seemed to bloom from the doctor's eyelashes.

While he was preoccupied with thoughts of bleeding eyelashes, John reached up with both hands and ran his thumbs under Sherlock's eyes gently.

"You're blurred," John mumbled before passing out in Sherlock's lap.

Sherlock would accompany John on many outings to Sugar's, usually to meet friends (and Simon, quite a lot, and Sherlock would never be sure how he felt about that), and he learned to apply his own eyeliner. He also learned to apply eyeshadow and bronzer and lipstick, but that was only because of a case and certainly wasn't something he'd repeat. Ever. He kept the eyeliner, though, and sometimes when he wanted (neededcravednownownow) to regain that feeling of mystery and pounding music, he would even wear it at home, even if the only person around to see it was his flatmate.

And if he happened to show up at a crime scene fresh from Sugar's and covered in glitter, trailing feathers from his hair (Lex, having warmed up to him, had insisted that the white feathers would enhance his features) and running his fingers beneath his eyes to ensure that his eyeliner was not smudged too badly, the Yarders were polite enough to say nothing.

And if John perhaps stared at Sherlock a bit longer and harder and more intensely than usual whenever the taller man donned his eyeliner, Sherlock was polite enough to say nothing, as well.

:::

To Be Continued...

:::

A/N - Gabah...

Well, this turned out _nothing_ like I'd intended. Silly Sherlock, refusing to do or think as I want him too.

Were it possible to imagine Simon Amstell with light brown hair, you would have my Simon. Because he's made of kittens just like Martin (and, by extension, John), and they would giggle together quite adorably. And probably cause the universe to implode from cuteness. Hm, maybe it's best that he doesn't play my Simon...

Iiiiiif anyone is interested enough in Simon, I may be tempted to write a student!John fic wherein he and Simon meet and Simon helps John come to terms with his sexuality. Maybe. Possibly.

Okay, so I'm starting to write it in my head already. Lay off!

My internet is spotty at best right now, so updates will not be coming as quickly as I had hoped. I apologize for any inconvenience this causes. As it is, I'm lucky if I get this posted when I want to. *kowtows* SORRYYYYYYY!

Song for this chapter: 'Moves Like Jagger' (Maroon 5)

Reviews are internet-fail bandaids!

Peace.

Akiko


	10. Nine: Embrassant

Facilitateur

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By: Akiko, Keeper of Sheep

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Chapter Nine: Embrassant

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Sherlock Holmes wanted to kiss John Watson.

It had come as quite a shock to the lanky detective, who couldn't honestly remember the last time he'd been attracted to someone in any way, shape, or form. He had certainly never craved a kiss before, but now it was all he seemed to want, and it seemed (though this was a tentative hypothesis) that he was sexually attracted to John.

The realization was an strange one. It was somehow both shocking and easy. There was no change in how Sherlock felt, no cosmic shift in his perception of the universe. Nothing changed from one second to the next. It was like waking up one morning and suddenly realizing that you had green eyes. You had lived with it for so long that the epiphany, while a bit disorienting, was not earth-shattering. It simply _was_.

The reason Sherlock had experienced one such epiphany was due to his newest obsession, and the origins of said obsession were no mystery, as they had been something of an epiphany, as well.

Sometime between chasing an escaped convict and catching him, John had pulled Sherlock out of the street and thrown him up against a wall just as a bus rumbled over the spot Sherlock had previously occupied. The doctor had grumbled at Sherlock, his eyes (free of eyeliner, sadly) narrowed and his lips pressed into a pale, thin line, and out of nowhere, the urge to kiss John punched Sherlock in the gut. It was a craving the likes of which Sherlock had never felt, all other needs and wants paling in comparison, and only the sight of their quarry lunging at them with a machete stopped Sherlock leaning in and catching John's worried words on his tongue.

It was the beginning of the most torturous two weeks of Sherlock's life.

Suddenly, all he could think about was kissing John. When John bit into his toast and licked the jam (_jamjamjamgod, will I ever overcome this addiction?_) from his lips, Sherlock wanted to kiss him. When John whistled along to Franz Ferdinand, Sherlock wanted to kiss him. When John giggled, frowned, smiled, sighed, pouted, hummed, whistled, breathed, _existed_, Sherlock wanted to kiss him.

He tried to overwhelm this new jonesing for a fix by indulging in every other addiction he had. He bundled himself up in John's jumper every night, built a bubble machine and filled his room with bubbles, drew his eyeliner on thick and dark and danced too-close-too-warm-too-tight with Simon to the pulsing beat at Sugar's. He poured glitter in front of John's electric fan until every surface of their sitting room was coated in the stuff (the skull had never looked so lovely before).

John shouted at him for a bit, and Sherlock wanted to kiss him.

When immersion in his various vices didn't help, Sherlock turned to his first and most faithful love, The Work, to satisfy him. He threw himself into each case with manic vigor, talking perhaps a bit too loud and much too quickly and gesticulating so wildly he hit Lestrade in the nose once. He snarked at Sally and made horribly insulting references to Anderson's parentage.

John called him incredible and ran after him into the night, and Sherlock wanted to kiss him.

It was time for a different approach. First (because Sherlock wasn't such a fool that he'd risk his partnership with John if there were other alternatives), he would have to see if his need for kisses was limited to John.

Molly had not been willing to be part of his experiment, and had slapped him when he leaned in and had run from the room in tears. Still, he had been close enough to know that kissing her would have been awkward and unpleasant, and he crossed her off his mental list. He didn't tell John, and he was certain Molly hadn't, either, because he knew that if John found out that Sherlock had made Molly cry, _again_, he would be cross.

He had managed to press his lips to Simon's before he realized that he was not a satisfactory alternative either. Simon had giggled and tried to kiss Sherlock again, but the detective simply tipped his shorter (drunker) companion into Rob's lap and left. John had frowned at him all night, and Sherlock wanted very, very much to kiss him, but the thought of John slapping him like Molly had held him back.

Quite desperate at this point, Sherlock found himself cornering Sally at a crime scene and requesting (not begging, never begging) that she allow him to test whether or not kissing her would be an acceptable substitute for kissing John. She hadn't even managed to say something rude to him. She was laughing too hard. Sherlock had huffed and walked (not stomped like a child, never ever ever) back past the yellow tape to where John was waiting with a bemused smile. He didn't have to know what Sherlock had said to Sally to be tickled silly by her reaction.

It was late, quite late, on a Sunday night when Sherlock slipped up the stairs and into John's bedroom. He paused by the bedside, not quite sure if he should wake John up for this. He thought again of John slapping him, or running away, or _laughing at him_, and decided that perhaps it would be best for John to never know about this experiment. So Sherlock crouched down beside John's bed, brushing the tips of his fingers over John's lips (a test, of course, to ensure that light pressure would not wake him). Then he leaned over and, ever so lightly, touched his lips to John's.

Tingles spread from his mouth to his toes. Heat blossomed in their wake as they ran over his cheeks, and his fingers trembled and clenched around John's blanket. Breathing out shakily, Sherlock leaned back only a few centimeters. Then, very sure that once would not be enough, he leaned back and pressed their lips together again.

Perhaps he had been too enthusiastic the second time, because when he pulled back again, John's eyes opened and he peered at Sherlock blearily.

"Wha'smaddr?"

Heart in his throat, Sherlock stood and left the room.

He waited all night for John to storm downstairs and demand an explanation, or shout at Sherlock for making advances on him while he slept, or something. Seconds melted into hours, and Sherlock watched the gray light of dawn creep across the floor, and still John did not appear.

When the doctor did stumble into the sitting room around midday, the tingling had finally subsided, and the craving had not. Hair rumpled and sleepiness still clinging to his features, John yawned, and Sherlock wanted to kiss him.

"Morning."

"Good morning, John," Sherlock said quietly, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

But John was turning away and shuffling towards the kitchen. "I had the oddest dream last night," he was saying. "Toast?"

"Yes. And jam."

John never told Sherlock about his dream, but the detective could guess what it had been about. He didn't go into John's room again, and even though the constant ache for his fix was amplified by those brief doses, he knew he could never, ever indulge himself in that again.

He could not risk losing John.

:::

To Be Continued...

:::

A/N - Who doesn't want to kiss John?

Okay, so, we're dangerously close to The End of Facilitateur. Oh noez! What will happen to our darling, clueless Sherlock?

I don't know why I asked that, I already know what's going to happen. Bwahahahaha!

Haha.

Anyway, one more chapter to go! Woohoo!

Song for this chapter: 'My First Kiss' (3OH!3 feat. Ke$ha)

Reviews are the only thing that could come close to comparing to kissing John Watson. Only not, because he's just yum.

Peace.

Akiko


	11. Ten: Heroisme

Facilitateur

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By: Akiko, Keeper of Sheep

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Chapter Ten: Heroïsme

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Of all the addictions Sherlock had aquired since meeting John, only one ever altered his personality so radically that he was actually frightened of it.

From the very first, Sherlock had fed off of John's admiration as though he had been starving. He needed that attention, that awe, and as such, did everything he could to ensure that it would continue. It didn't take much at first, just the promise of adventure and his own brilliant deductions.

As time when on, however, Sherlock found that John's admiration for him had turned to idolization. John expected things of Sherlock, things Sherlock had no intentions of delivering. Things Sherlock wasn't sure he could deliver, even if he had a mind to. Things like courage, compassion, control. John expected Sherlock to be more than a great man, he expected Sherlock to be a good man, and that was something Sherlock would never be. That was why he had John, after all, to be good and brave and _John_ while Sherlock continued to be brilliant and genius and _Sherlock_. And although John had shown himself to be rather brilliant himself, even though it wasn't the same as being Sherlock's sort of brilliant, the detective knew that he would never be any of the things John was.

He would never be the hero John imagined him to be.

Sherlock had always known that. He didn't want to be a hero, didn't want to swoop in and save the day and be loved. He wanted to solve puzzles and be amazing and extraordinary. Perhaps, once, when he was very young and didn't yet understand how the world worked, he had thought that he could be all of those things and still swoop in and save the day and be loved. Now, though...now he knew that heroes were anything but extraordinary. Heroes were people like John. They were ordinary people who had warm smiles and wore their hearts on the sleeves of their shapeless jumpers. They were heroes _because_ they were ordinary people, which made the extraordinary things they did that much more amazing.

Sherlock could not be a hero, not ever, because there was nothing extraordinary about a genius being a genius.

In John's eyes, though, Sherlock was capable of anything. Even when Sherlock insisted that he wasn't a hero, would never be a hero, could never become a hero, John still looked at him as though he was. It made Sherlock's chest hurt and his throat feel tight, and it was a sickening feeling, the thought that he was leading John on in such a terrible way. So instead of correcting John every time, Sherlock decided that he would do his best to play the hero.

He rushed in ahead of John and tackled a homicidal maniac away from his would-be victim. He put himself between a gunman and a young mother holding a baby and narrowly escaped being shot. He talked a suicidal man off a ledge using only his brain and a calm, unruffled voice. He accepted no thanks, because heroes didn't need thanks, and stalked back into the shadows with his coat flapping behind him like a cape and a smiling John at his shoulder.

It might have been just an act, but after a while, he almost started to believe it himself. Certainly, as time went on, the sickening cold lump in his gut that formed every time John gazed at him in awe no longer made itself known.

As time went on, it became yet another addiction. No longer was Sherlock called to crime scenes with the promise of something new, something interesting. No longer did he reject the pleas of someone truly in need simply because they offered him no challenge. As the weeks passed, Sherlock found himself falling further and further into his obsession with playing the hero.

Really, Sherlock should have known better, because he understood better than most how believing your own con would always end badly.

So it was that what should have been a simple missing-persons case turned into a life-or-death choice, and it was Sherlock's life balanced against John's death.

He stood in the dank, dark warehouse, as still as if he'd been carved from marble, as John panted and strained against the ropes that bound him. He was staring at Sherlock, no longer blank but filled with desperation, screaming against his gag. Sherlock knew what he was screaming.

_Kill me. Kill me. Save yourself. Don't be a hero. For once, don't be a hero. Kill me._

The weight of the gun in his hand seemed heavier than it should have been, the cold angles of the metal burning his fingers in ways they shouldn't. In contrast, the remote that was wired to the Semtex strapped to his chest seemed warm and light, as though it might crumble to ash at any moment.

John's eyes were wide and too blue to be believed as their puppet master laughed cruelly.

Sherlock knew that the police were not going to find them soon enough to stop him having to choose. He had run out of time, had bluffed and wavered and wasted as many seconds as he could. He also knew that their captor would keep his bargain. He was too sadistic not to let the survivor live with his guilt - it was part of his game.

_Kill me. Please, Sherlock. Don't be a hero. Not this time._

Sherlock shook his head slowly, and John sagged against his restraints. He was not a hero. He never had been, not once in his entire life. He had played one exceptionally well, but Sherlock was very aware that heroes did not need any reward for their deeds. Sherlock did. Had he not received John's smiles and admiration and trust, he wouldn't have bothered.

Sherlock had never been a hero before, but here, now, just this once, he knew he needed to be.

Holding John's gaze, Sherlock dropped the gun and raised the remote.

"I'm sorry, John."

He pushed the button.

:::

To Be Continued?

:::

A/N - Oh, no, I di'int!

Oh, wait. Yes. Yes, I did.

Or _did_ I?

The world may never know.

Song for this chapter: 'Heroe' (Il Divo)

Please review. It makes me want to continue.

Peace.

Akiko


	12. Epilogue: Amant

Facilitateur

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By: Akiko, Keeper of Sheep

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Epilogue: Amant

:::

There were bubbles inside his head. No, he was inside a bubble.

Yes, that was right. It was logical. It explained why everything was distorted and strange and painted in odd colors. It explained why to world was muffled and echoed oddly in his ears. It explained why he was floating away, slowly yet surely into a place that was warm and soft and glittered beautifully.

And then there was pain.

_Pain._

Fire was crawling all over him, inside him, making him tense and arch, and then there was bruising force against his chest and he was gasping and screaming and everything was loudloudloud and ringing and his eyelashes hurt. No, everything hurt.

Someone was holding his face between their hands. They were strong and rough and familiar, and the blue-gold eyes that swam into focus above him were strong and rough and familiar and glittering beautifully.

"You fucking idiot," John hissed, and it was John, alive and sooty, and he'd never been so happy to be called an idiot. He only wished John would wait until someone had stopped his insides from bleeding first.

He coughed, and everything went fuzzy at the edges. John's fingers flexed against his jawline and his lips pressed against Sherlock's brow. Later, Sherlock would be touched and breathless and all sorts of romantic things, but at the moment he could only think that it just made his head ache worse.

The glitter in John's eyes escaped, and Sherlock abruptly realized that John was crying. He wanted to tell him to stop it, that it was hurting Sherlock even more than the fire and fist of the explosion, that it was frightening him, but he couldn't draw a deep enough breath.

"You will never, _ever_ put my life before yours, Sherlock," John insisted, his voice too hoarse to be angry. "Do you understand me? _Never again_."

Which was stupid of him, because Sherlock could never sacrifice John to save himself. He loved him too much to go on living without him.

Oh.

_Oh._

Something must have shown on his face, because John choked on a sob and leaned down to press their lips together.

Sherlock passed out then, and when he woke up next the bubbles weren't in his head, and he wasn't in a bubble, but there were bubbles floating past the window of his room. He turned his head to see John teaching Mary how to work Sherlock's bubble machine while Lestrade shook his head and smiled.

"John," he rasped, regretting it instantly when it made him cough.

When John had given him his sips of water and fluffed his pillows, and when Mary had handed him his purple rabbit plush toy with its bubble necklace, and when Lestrade had informed him that the maniac behind the whole debacle was safely behind bars and led his daughter away, Sherlock turned his head back to stare at the ceiling. A ceiling on which someone had stuck bits of plastic in the shape of stars. It was too far away for him to see properly, too light, and his eyes didn't seem to want to focus like they normally did, but when his brains stopped sloshing around in his skull he would certainly deduce what they were for.

John rambled quietly for a bit about how their abductor had been more than a bit mad, and how he was fortunately rubbish at constructing effective explosives. The blast had been small, knocking Sherlock back a couple of feet and setting fire to his coat (which John had insisted on treating with flame-retardant chemicals shortly after Sherlock nearly incinerated himself during a nail polish remover experiment).

The psychopath responsible had cut John loose as promised, which turned out to be his last mistake, because (as Lestrade explained to him much later) John had turned on him and (in Lestrade's words) "went nuclear on his arse until we showed up and pried him off". From the photos of the scene, Sherlock had deduced that at some point John had introduced the man's face to the wall more than once. While certainly falling under the category of "overkill", it was somewhat satisfying.

Though John didn't say anything about it, Sherlock knew that from the moment he'd pressed the button to the moment the paramedics started CPR, John had believed Sherlock to be dead. He didn't know how John had felt about that (though the wall to the face might have hinted at a bit of anger), but he knew that if their roles had been reversed, he would not have taken out his rage on John's murderer until the man was a quivering mass of bleeding flesh. Even overcome with fury, John was far too merciful, and Sherlock was much more creative.

When John had finished explaining how he had breathed for Sherlock for five minutes, the conversation died, and fuzzy silence filled the room. It was several moments before John spoke again.

"Sherlock..."

"Yes, John?"

"You scared me."

Blinking, Sherlock tilted his head again (_God, stop the sloshing, I may be sick_) to regard John with surprise. "I can't have done, John. You're the brave one."

John rolled his eyes and leaned back in his chair with his arms crossed defensively. "You scared me, you great bloody fool, because I thought you had died before I could tell you I love you."

Sherlock pondered this for a moment, but really, it didn't change anything except perhaps the fact that he would be able to indulge his addiction to kissing John. So he smiled, shrugged (_Oh, ow, God, why does everything __**hurt**__?_), and tilted his head further so he could make sure that John saw in his eyes all the things he would never be brave enough to say out loud.

"I'm not a hero, John," he said softly. "But for you, I will always try."

That night, when the nurses gave him his sedatives and pretended John wasn't curled up in the bed beside him and turned off the lights, Sherlock gazed at the luminescent cosmos that John had created on the ceiling and the walls. Taking John's hand, he let the stars and the drugs wash over him, falling into the universe once more. As his vision dimmed and sleep bore him away, he could only think that of all his addictions, the one he could never do without was the one he loved best.

:::

The End!

:::

A/N - ...

Wow. I wasn't expecting that.

Well, that's not entirely true. I was expecting to open up a plot hole and shove Sherlock in so he would live, and a hospital room scene with bubbles, and a love confession and all that good stuff. I wasn't expecting the glow-in-the-dark stars stuck all over the room (if you're curious, you should definitely watch Mr. Magorium's Wonder Emporium - cheesy as hell, but has some of the best lines and visuals ever). Oh, well. It was interesting (to me, anyway).

I hope you've all enjoyed the ride. I know I did. So much so that I may even be convinced to write a few Specials. You never know! =3 Halloween's coming up, and I think Sherlock might have a thing for vampire!John...

I would like to make mention of something I left a note about in 'The Science Of Seduction Christmas Special!'. I am planning an SOS-compatible fic (probably a one- or two-shot) about a murder involving fanfiction authors. If you would like a mention, please message me with a short note about what it is about fanfiction that you love (please don't be afraid to sound a bit insane and/or obsessed), and if you'd like to be a suspect. =3

Also, I've only just noticed that I misspelled the title of the last chapter. It should be Héroïsme, not Heroïsme. Silly me and my silly French-flavored-fail. *headdesk*

Thanks to everyone who reviewed this story. You guys are amazing, and full of win, and made of jam and bubbles and Scrabble tiles and so very many other wonderful things. That being said, please endeavor to review one final time, to let me know if this lived up to your expectations.

Song for this chapter: 'Addicted To You' (Kelly Clarkson)

Peace.

Akiko


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